


A Slippery Slope

by olive_garden



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, Blindness, But oops, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Confusion, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jonathan Sims is disconnected from the eye, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Minor Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Recovery, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, i guess??, neither of those are important to the fic but it's important to me that you know that, technically?? - Freeform, they reversed the apocalypse woohoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-22
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-27 22:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30130011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive_garden/pseuds/olive_garden
Summary: Snippets of life after The Change, The Age Of The Beholding, The Watcher's Crown, The Apocalypse.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	A Slippery Slope

**Author's Note:**

> so uhhh, i'd like to say that a lot of Jon's reactions to forgetting things and his memory getting really bad is how I react to my own memory being bad?? i have Terrible memory and when i forget stuff that everyone else remembers or that i feel i should remember, i start to panic a little so uh. this is Projection But Sad And A Little Specific To Just Me lmao
> 
> also, small CW for one mention of vomiting around where it details how they reversed the apocalypse

It's warm in the cabin. It's warm and cosy. The quilts are thick, the fire is crackling, the tea is steaming. The Highland air is fresh, the first breath of good air Jon and Martin had had in months. The sun is shining down on the safe house, and the rooms are filling with a golden hue.

Martin is trying to think about that and not the fact that Jon is getting worse.

They're on the couch, trying to calm Jon's shivering with blankets. It's only been four days. It took a week to get to this point at Selasa's house. Jon is getting worse, and Martin doesn't know what to do. 

The Eye is gone. The institute is gone. Jonah is gone. Jon's connection to it all is gone. Whisked away into another reality to bother someone else. The statements don't keep him healthy anymore, they just freak him out. He was already doing poorly when he woke up after passing out from exhaustion from the whole Turning Back The Apocalypse thing. He was asleep for twelve hours. When he woke up, it was the middle of the night. Martin had obviously not gone to bed, too busy pacing with worry, and he heard the panic before he saw it. Then came the dizzy spells, which turned into needing to be held up every time he walked for more than a few minutes. Then the night terrors. And the forgetfulness. Jon doesn't even seem to remember why he's 'ill' half the time. Martin supposes it's better to just tell him he's gotten sick. 

Right now though, Jon is asleep. His breathing is slow and shaking, but at least he's breathing at all. His face is tucked into Martin's chest, nestled in his lap, despite being built like a bag of elbows. His face is peaceful. Not filled with terror or etched with worry. Not even a frown. Part of Martin wants to ask 'Who are you and what have you done with my grumpy boyfriend?' but he finds himself asking that most of the time anyway. He strokes his hair, which smells faintly of coconut shampoo, almost undetectable under the smell of strawberry and vanilla tea, of which Jon has brought in four mugs of over the past few hours. He brought one in and settled into his book, only to get up again and come back with another mug, complaining that he couldn't find his favourite in the cupboard, only to spot it sitting right there on the table. Then it happened again. And again. It stopped once Martin pulled him in to cuddle and explained to him that he'd already made tea. Jon had forgotten that he got up. Martin would simply have to keep him on the couch through extreme means. By extreme means, he meant tackling Jon and laying on top of him until they settles on something comfortable that didn't make them burst into a fit of giggles.

Martin kisses the crown of Jon's head and closes his eyes, trying to keep the tears from seeping through. He knows he doesn't have much time left with Jon, but at least he can try to enjoy the quiet moments.

* * *

Martin stirs at the sound of whimpering. Head fuzzy with sleep for a moment, he wonders what could possibly be making that noise. He fumbles over his shoulder for his glasses and slides them on, sitting up with a groan. The clock reads 4:13 AM. He looks over to Jon.

Jon is curled right into a ball, clutching his shoulders and trembling. Martin leans over and sees tears slowly rolling down his face. He sighs. Running a hand over his arm, brushing his hair out the way, he gently shushes Jon. 

"It's okay," he whispers. "I've got you."

It's almost routine now. Martin will wake up in the dead of night. Jon will cry in his sleep as Martin tries desperately to calm his fears without waking him up. It can take hours for the man to get back to sleep, and he needs as much as he can get. Eventually, he will wake up, apologise for moving so much, and Martin will tell him not to. He doesn't like it when Jon apologises for his nightmares. But for now, all Martin can do is whisper promises he can't keep and hold a pair of shaking hands.

"Martin?" Jon mumbles, eyes just barely cracking open.

"You were just having a nightmare, darling," Martin says, shuffling back down the bed and pulling Jon into his arms. Shakily welcoming the embrace, he tucks his head under Martin's chin.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"It's okay. Don't apologise, you can't help it. Just try to get back to sleep."

Turn out, tonight is a good night, because within the hour, Jon is quietly snoring with his face pressed into Martin's chest, hands still clinging to his shirt. Martin turns his face into the pillow, letting the fabric soak up stray tears. He can't cry in front of Jon. Not in this state. He needs to be strong for him. Care for him.

He's used to caring for loved ones, after all.

* * *

Jon isn't in the cabin.

Martin doesn't know where he's gone, how he even left - he can barely walk more than a few meters without feeling too lightheaded to stay upright. But Jon isn't in the cabin. He's checked every room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room and Jon is nowhere to be found.

"Jon?" Martin calls as he speed-walks through the cabin, trying to hide the concern lining his words and stay quiet enough not to scare him. He gets scared so easily these days. Forgets there's anyone in the house with him. "Jon, where'd you go?"

No reply comes. Only the static silence of wooden rooms and lonesome couches. Martin's mine starts to wander. What if he found his way to the village? Will he even remember the village was ever there? What if he's lost in the hills, the grass gets almost as tall as he is out there. He feels like a doting mother. And by that he means he feels _awful._ He knows he shouldn't worry so much. Jon is a grown man, for god's sake, and he can handle himself, memory problems or not. But he is also a man with severe memory problems that seem to reset his head every bloody hour. And they're getting worse every day.

Martin pokes his head out the back door and starts to look around for a mop of salt and pepper hair. Mostly salt at this point. All he sees is green, green, green. Swaying grass as the breeze pushes and pulls each blade into a synchronised waltz. Sheep dot the hills, little white specks grazing along the ground. It's beautiful and Martin doesn't _care._

"Martin? The noise reaches his ears like a godsend. He just barely catches it over the rushing wind. "Martin, I- I think I'm lost, where are you?"

"Jon?" He starts to walk, peering over the hills as far as he can. "Jon, keep talking, I'll get to you soon. Don't worry."

"I- I can't see you, it's too- erm... I can't find you." The panic is subtle, but definitely there in the waver of his voice. His face flushes with embarrassment whenever he forgets something; where he is, what he was doing, what he was talking about it. He hates having to ask for help. But the fear is clearly dripping from every syllable and Martin aches for him. Aches to see him safe and calm and hear him sound any other way than what he just sounded like.

After what feels like an eternity - but was probably just a few minutes - of scanning the endless green planes, he spots a yellow cardigan and grey hair. Sitting at the base of the hill the cabin is perched on, at the turn of a foot-worn grass path, is Jon. His head is turning from side to side and he doesn't seem to notice Martin standing there.

"Jon, I see you, just hold on," Martin calls out. Jon flinches at the sound, much closer than it was before, but he stops trying to stand up. Martin stumbles down the hill, worrying about how Jon even got down there; his legs are so shaky these days.

When he finally reaches Jon, he kneels down in front of him and brushes his hair back. His eyes are wild with fear and he grabs onto Martin's sleeves.

"I-I'm sorry, I just- I don't remember leaving the cabin, or- or how I got here, I-" Floundering for words, waving his hands, screwing his eyes shut as he tries to think. "My head's fuzzy, I'm sorry, I'm _trying_ , I _am_ , I just can't-"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Martin whispers and takes his hands to stop their shaking. "You're alright. Let's go back inside first, it's cold out here." He helps Jon to his feet. He nearly rolls over his ankle trying to stand by himself, so Martin holds him against his side as they slowly make their way back to the cabin. Once Jon is planted firmly in the corner of the armchair with a cup of cocoa in his hands, he tries to explain what happened once again.

"I was in here, and... and then I went- wait, no... no, I think I was in the kitch- no, I was definitely in here. I was in here, and then I went to get some fresh air so I opened a window. Wait, no, I went outside. I went- outside, at the front and followed the path and I... forgot I'd ever gotten up."

"Jon, I found you round the back."

"Oh. Oh, yes. I went out the back - for some air - and I followed this path until I got lost."

"Right."

"I think losing The Eye is giving me memory problems." Martin sighs through his nose and rubs a hand over his forehead. 

"Yes, love, we found this out a few days ago," he mumbles, trying not to sound annoyed at him. Because he is annoyed. At everything _but_ Jon. 

"Ah," he says. He takes a sip of his cocoa. "Sorry."

"It- it's okay, it's not your fault, I'm just- so-" Martin groans into his hands to avoid snapping at him. Jon has enough on his plate, he doesn't need his boyfriend yelling at him about something he can't fix on top of it all. "Okay. Why don't we go on a walk together? Some fresh air could probably do us both some good."

"And if I feel faint again?"

"I suppose I'll just have to carry you." Jon's face goes dark with a blush. "You should know by now that I'm happy to take any opportunity to coddle you, Jon."

Jon clings to Martin's arm as they make their way down the path, through the Highland hills. "Just tell me if you're not feeling great," he says, and Jon nods.

"It's nice out..." It doesn't sound like he's saying it anyone in particular. Thinking out loud.

"Nice break from the wind and rain all day."

"That's Scotland for you."

"I know. The woman at the checkout the other day, in the village, her accent was so thick I could barely understand what she was saying," Martin says through quiet laughter.

"How is the village? I don't think I've been yet." Martin elects to not tell him that they had a lovely time going through a gift shop in town the first day they arrived in Scotland.

"Aw, it's great. Very quaint. Everyone keeps calling me 'hen,' though, not sure what that's about."

"Hen?"

"Yeah, I went into a corner shop pharmacy to pick up some ibuprofen, and she said-" Martin starts the worst possible impression of a Scottish accent. "-'Aye, there ye go, hen, take care-' I had to do a double take, like, what? What does that mean? I'm not a _hen!_ "

Jon chuckles and leans his head against Martin's shoulder. "I think it's a pet name of sorts. What if _I_ started calling you hen?"

"I- I suppose I could make an exception for that."

Jon smiles, lifting Martin's hand to kiss his knuckles. His laughter is quiet and weary. He raises a hand to his head, fingers tangling into his hair, as his knees give out from under him. He falls from Martin's grasp, collapsing on the ground before he can be caught. 

"Jon?" Martin cries. He rolls him onto his back; out cold. " _Jon!_ Oh, shit-shit-shit- _shit!_ " Racing back to the cabin with Jon in his arms , Martin swears the whole way up the hill and to the living room. Jon lays limp on the couch, slowly stirring back to consciousness. 

"There you are..." Martin holds his head in his hands, raking his own hair back. "How are you feeling? Dizzy? Faint?"

"Wh- no, I... I'm not dizzy, where am I?"

"You're in the living room. You had a spill, love."

"I'm sorry, I would've told you."

"Jon, no-"

"It came on so fast."

"Don't apologise. Don't." Martin kisses Jon's hair. "Not dizzy anymore?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Good." Martin doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to take Jon to a hospital because deep down, he knew that this was coming. The haziness. The lethargy. The forgetfulness. He knew it was coming since Selaesa's house and he doesn't want Jon's inevitable last moments to be in an over-bright hospital room listening to a heart monitor. And he doesn't think Jon would want that either. Besides, what would a doctor even do about someone rapidly decaying because they loss their connection to an all knowing, all seeing eye fear god thing? Doctors don't tend well to the Magnus Institute lot anyway. 

So, he does what he does best.

"I'll make you some tea."

* * *

Jon was too weak to get out of bed this morning. Martin left to get some lemon and ginger tea, alone, to help with his newfound nausea. The shop is busy, the lines are long. It seems everyone in the bloody village has decided to do their shopping today. Suppose it's not too out the ordinary. Most people do their weekly shop on Sundays, right? He's grown incredibly antsy by the time he's anywhere near halfway, watching the cashiers scan items excruciatingly slowly and stop for small talk. He doesn't _care_ about Debora or her kids or how they're doing in school or if she got that promotion, he needs to get home to Jon.

It reminds him of his mum, the way he frets about Jon's condition and how he's feeling every moment of the day, but the sour taste of obligation that finds its home on his tongue whenever he visited her has disappeared. The screaming, the shouting, the futile attempts to calm her anger. The fear of what mistake he'll make next. Now it's just worry and love; _so much love._ He physically aches in his chest with it. He loves Jon more than what he thought possible and he needs him to be okay. He just does. He hates to dote, to seem overprotective or overbearing, but he needs to make sure Jon's happy as he can make him in what could be his final days. 

Could be... What is he talking about? False hope, that's what it is.

He gives one word answers to the lovely cashier who asks how is your day going? Aww, is someone not feeling well? Hope he feels better soon! Martin hopes so too.

The walk back to the cabin feels longer than usual. The stroll past the Highland cows used to be filled with stopping to look at the good ones - 'All of them are good, don't be absurd, Martin.' - taking pictures to look at later, naming all of them Tony, George, Our Majesty King Henry The Eighteenth, backing away before they ever got to pet them. Now he walks straight past them, barely acknowledging they're there. No trying to guess who has the longest fringe. No admiring their horns. Just walking with his head down and not listening to anyone info-dumping about cows to walk beside him.

The keys jingling as he takes him out of his pocket brings Martin back down the earth. He sticks the key in the lock and twists, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

"I'm back, Jon," he calls out. "I got you some lemon and ginger. I know you don't like it, but it might make you feel better."

No voice calls back. Not even a tired, but happy one - one that's weak but pleased to know he's back; the one he's grown used to. Just dead silence. Static. He leaves the tea on the hall table and heads for the stairs. He knows Jon is probably asleep. Peacefully conked out in bed with nothing more wrong with him than usual. That doesn't help Martin's mind from wandering to a very dark place, very quickly. However, standing in the kitchen, is just who he wanted to see. 

It's Jon, bundled in cardigans and clutching the table so hard his knuckles are white. His eyes are glassy.

"Jon, are you alright?" he asks, quiet relief flooding his senses that Jon is at least up. He can still walk, get down the stairs. He isn't laying dead in the bedroom. A totally wild jump to a stupid conclusion, but Martin _worries_ , okay? A _lot._ "Come on, let's get you sat down, you need all the rest you can get." He takes a step closer, but Jon blindly grabs the nearest thing to him - a dull vegetable knife from the wooden block - and points it at him. His hands and legs are trembling. Martin stops.

"Who are you?"

Martin is sure he can hear his heart shatter into pieces and pieces as Jon frantically looks for an exit.

"How do you know me?" he asks, voice wavering. He looses his footing on his shaky feet and collapses against the wall and slides down to the floor, arms still straight as he can manage at Martin. He tucks his legs up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. "How did- how did you get in? Wh-what-- what do you want from me?"

"Jon, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." Martin lowers himself to the floor, hands visible and out like he's trying to calm a wild animal. "It's me. Martin. Do you remember? It's Martin."

"Don't come any closer!"

"I won't. I won't. You're okay. You're safe. I'm not here to hurt you." He stays as still as he can, watching and wanting to take the knife from Jon's hands as they fumble to keep a good grip on the handle. "You're safe. It's just Martin... Please remember."

Jon squints at him for a moment, in an agonising silence... and his eyes start to soften from their sharp, terrified gaze. The knife falls with a terrible clatter onto the kitchen tiles and he covers his mouth with his hands. Then, for the first time since the apocalypse started, tears start to spill over.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Martin. I'm so sorry. I didn't- I didn't remember, I- I'm sorry." Martin slowly makes his way to him and scoops his tiny frame into a hug. He's warm. Boiling hot. Shivering in his arms, wracked with ugly sobs. Martin can't help starting to cry with him.

"It's okay, love," Martin says, not bothering to try and hide the tears in his voice. What's the point in it anymore? They both could use a good cry anyway. "You're okay. We're okay." He kisses Jon on the forehead, on his hair, on his temple. Scrapes his nails over his scalp. Jon clings to him. Clings to safety. Clings to what's left.

"Let's... let's get you to the couch. You can lie down... I'll make you some lemon and ginger tea." Jon shakes his head, wrapping his arms further around Martin's middle.

"Please don't leave. I don't want to forget you again, I _can't._ " Martin carefully pulls him to his feet.

"Then we'll go together." He guides Jon to the door, picks up the tea and heads back to the kitchen. Jon sits on a stool, forehead pressed against Martin's shoulder as he fixes the kettle.

"Why were you up?" Martin quietly asks. "Were you feeling better?"

"I think, um..." He starts to wave his hand, snapping his fingers as he tries to the think. He gently hits the tap. Martin doesn't fill in the gap for him; he gets annoyed when Martin finishes his sentences. "Water. I think I was getting some water. There's uh... there's a glass there. Probably water. I don't remember getting down the stairs."

"Right..." Jon takes Martin's hand and nuzzles against his arm, kissing his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says again. Martin tries his best to not groan in frustration. "I didn't mean to forget you."

"I know you didn't." Martin leans down and kisses his forehead. "It's okay."

"It's _not_ okay! I'm forgetting everything every few minutes, I- I forgot who you _are_ , Martin! I just blink and I'll be in a different room and not know where I was before, or how I got there... I can't last like this, Martin. I can't- I'm dying. The Eye, it- I'm going to _die_ , I'm not _ready_ to die yet."

"I know, dear, I know..." He wants to tell him that he won't die. Martin won't _let_ him die. Not now. He'll take care of him, he'll help him get better, because he _will_ get Jon better if it's the last thing he ever does. Instead, he gently hand Jon a cup of tea, watches him grimace at the small. "Let's go back to bed. We can just stay there for a while."

"Yes... yes, alright."

Martin carries him upstairs, places him under the duvet and crawls in right beside him. Jon leans heavily against Martin's side, sipping his tea and screwing his eyes shut at every foul taste.

"How are you feeling?"

"Still nauseous. Like my stomach is constantly turning. Lightheaded... Scared." He takes a sip of tea with a quiet ' _blegh._ ' "I'm scared I'm going to wake up one day and you'll just be... gone. And you won't come back next time."

"I'll still be here to help you, no matter what happens."

"I love you," Jon whispers. "At least I still know that." Martin holds his hands steady as he goes to take another sip. He kisses Martin's lips, his own burning worryingly hot, and tucks his head under his chin.

"I love you, too."

* * *

Jon doesn't wake up the next morning.

He's breathing. Shallowly and quickly, but still breathing. His pulse is fast and faint but it's there nonetheless. Martin is still panicking. He found a thermometer and it read 40 degrees. He lets Jon sleep, but leaves a cool, damp towel over his forehead, replaces the winter duvet with just the cover. The peaceful face that overtook him when he slept is gone, replaced with furrowed brows and crinkled eyes. His face is slick with sweat. The bedsheets stick to his arms and legs.

He rushes to run a cool bath when he hears groaning from the other room, followed by a thud. He heads straight back to the bedroom to find Jon on his knees, holding the edge of the bedside table. he must've tried to get up.

"Jon, no you have to stay in bed if you're dizzy." He help him back into bed. He's too tired to protest.

"Did we do it?"

"Do what?" The damp towel has gotten warm so he busies himself with dipping it in the bowl of water he left at the side.

"It's so _hot_ here," he manages through a wince. "Did it work?"

Martin's chest tightens as he realises what he's babbling on about.

The fire. The blazing archive, flames licking at their skin. Jon unconscious under the falling debris.

It took him and Tim to scoop up the rubble and carry him outside. They barely made it before the roof fell in. Together, the archival staff sat and watched as the fire consumed the building - watched and waited. The End never came for them. The world didn't turn black, their vision didn't fade, their heart rate did not slow. instead, a horrifying shriek filled their ears. A shriek as the very earth rumbled and shook. The eye in place of the sun widened, growing bloodshot as veins crept to the glassy surface. It spiralled from its centre and collapsed in on itself in a terrible show of colours and twisting clouds under a cacophony of noise.

Then it was quiet. Birds chirped, leaves rustled, fire crackled. The sky did not blink. It was half past three on June 23rd, 2019 and the archival staff were _alive_. Hysterical, disbelieving laughter filled the air. Cheers of joy - triumph. Basira and Daisy launched into a hug. Tim and Sasha were fully sobbing as they grinned and held each other. Melanie dragged Georgie into a kiss, barely able to contain her smile. And Martin held the limp body of his boyfriend in his arms as he stared up at the sky, tears rolling silently down his face. 

A weak cough. "Martin?" He looked down and saw bleary eyes staring up him through a layer of soot. His eyes have not changed; still bright emerald speckled with gold. Despite their origins, Martin has thought they were beautiful. He huffed a laugh that could have been a sob and brushed Jon's hair out of his face. "Did we do it? Did it work?" Martin nodded, his glasses nearly flying off his face.

"Yeah," he said, tears dripping onto Jon's coat. "We did it. It's all over now." Jon grinned and pulled Martin down. With a hand cupping his cheek, and an arm slung around his shoulders, Jon pressed his lips to Martin's.

He thought it was over. He thought they'd won. He didn't think about Selaesa's, how he'd watched Jon slowly deteriorate. But now, he's holding his trembling boyfriend - _his Jon_ \- and trying to cool him down in the bath. It's room temperature. He'd only managed to get him in after twenty minutes of vomiting had subsided. Jon is holding his hand for dear life, head fallen forward against Martin's chest. He can't keep his head up very often these days. Martin runs his hands through his hair. It ends just above his shoulders after a much needed haircut.

"Feeling any better?" When he looks down, all he sees is grey hair streaked with black. "Jon?"

"Hm?"

"Are you feeling any better?" Jon sighs through his nose. Probably means no."

"Hard to see."

"See?"

"Yes."

"You mean, like... The Eye?"

"The wh- no. No. It... it's been getting darker..." Martin's throat closes and he doesn't respond. "I think... I think I'm going blind."

"Oh, Jon..." He doesn't say anything else. He can't. He can't let Jon hear the panic and anger building up in his stomach. Can't let Jon hear the tears about to spill over.

"It's not how people usually go blind, I don't think. It's not- it's not blurry or anything, it's like- like the darkness is creeping up on me. An-and it's going to get me soon. If I look far enough, it's all black. Just fading into nothing. I can see you, though. You're always close enough." 

He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. All he did was take that stupid fucking job and be the unlucky promotion winner. Tim was right. There's no rhyme or reason to who gets fucked over by the paranormal. Read the wrong book, go into the wrong church, skydive with the wrong guy. Take the wrong job. And now look at him. Shivering and feverish and barely able to remember anything and, to top it all off, he's going blind. If Martin could wring Elias's neck again, he'd do it in a heart beat.

"I'll always be close enough," Martin whispers into his hair. "I'm here for you, love."

* * *

Sasha and Tim are at the door. He hasn't been in touch with any of the others in the last weeks; too busy helping Jon remember which room he's in, what he was doing, that, no, he doesn't have to read statements anymore. They've brought a tin of biscuits and some tea. _Good_ tea.

Once they've settled into the couches with some mugs of tea and the biscuit tin open on the coffee table, they settle into small talk.

"How are Basira and Daisy? Or Melanie and Georgie?" Martin asks. "I haven't talked to them much either, I'm afraid."

"Basira and Daisy got a flat together! They're currently out of jobs, but they're helping each other," Sasha says, voice high and bright. More energy than he's used to now. Tim takes his arm away from her shoulders and looks for his phone. 

"As for Melanie and Georgie," he snickers, typing as fast as he can on Spotify, "they're _both_ running _What The Ghost?_ now. It's exactly as adorable as you think it is." He plays an episode.

The theme song plays: piano in minor key. It's like something you'd hear at the start of a kids' horror movie. _Goosebumps_ or something.

'Hi there, haunt fans! I'm Georgie Barker-'

'And I'm Melanie King.'

'And this is another episode of _What The Ghost?_ , your weekly insight into ghouls-'

'-ghosts-'

'-and ghastly goings on.'

"Oh my god," Martin giggles. "They _are_ adorable!"

"I know!" Tim cackles and puts his phone away, going right back to flinging his arm around Sasha's shoulders. "How are you and Jon? Where is he, by the way? Hasn't found a job and flung himself into it already, has he?"

"No, he- he's upstairs, he's asleep right now," Martin says, not knowing gif it's his place to explain how Jon is doing. More so, if he even wants to.

"Is he feeling okay?" Sasha asks. "If I know anything about that little man, it's that he doesn't take midday naps."

"He's... been tried, recently." Martin takes a sip of his tea, and desperately hopes someone will change the topic and start speaking again. They don't. "I think it's to do with the whole connection to the Eye thing?"

"Right." Tim takes a biscuit from the tin, solemnly staring at the floor. He doesn't eat it, just fiddles with it in his hands. "So, what? Is he just tired more often?"

"No, he- it's a bit more- extreme? Than that?" They both furrow their brows, prompting him to keep going. "He's um... he's getting worse by the day." Once it starts, it doesn't stop spilling out. "It started just a couple days after we reversed The Change. He got dizzy a lot, he was tired more than usual, he slept for twelve hours after the connection was severed, woke up panicking because he didn't know where he was. Stopped being able to stand for long. Started wandering into rooms without knowing why. Getting a drink or food, if he could even keep it down, then forgetting he ever got up.

"The... the other week, he- he forgot who I was. I went out for about an hour, and when I'd come back, he didn't recognise me. Thought I'd broken in and pointed a knife at me. Now he's got a fucking fever and I just- I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do- I don't know how long he's going to last before he dies without his connection to The Eye like he thought he would. Is he even going to die? Or is he just going to be miserable and ill and confused for the rest of his life?"

He doesn't even notice he's crying until Sasha and Tim wrap their arms around him in a hug. He sobs into a shoulder, not sure whose it is, and tries to stay quiet, to not wake up Jon. He's finally getting some much needed sleep after days of fitful naps.

"You've been looking after yourself too, right?" Sasha whispers and he nods.

"As best I can. Whenever he's sleeping, I make sure to take some time for myself, which is... a lot of the time these days." He sniffles. "I'm just so scared for him. For us. He's going _blind_ , Sasha. Said his vision is getting darker every day."

"I'm so sorry, Martin," Tim mumbles, and runs a comforting hand up and down his back. "How's the fever going?"

"Well, it's not getting worse, if that's what you mean. I've got all the fans I could find in the cabin turned on in the bedroom and he's using the duvet cover as a blanket."

"Martin?" The voice is quiet, obviously tired. Half awake. "Are you alright?" Martin dries his eyes and gives Tim and Sasha a look, a sort of apology. He disappears upstairs.

Jon is hanging on the the railing at the top of the stairs, looking worried. His eyes are aimed near Martin but they miss him by a bit until he's closer. "Jon, be _careful_ ," he quietly chastises. He keeps his voice down. He doesn't think Jon would want his friends to know about the smaller things. He probably wouldn't want them to know any of what Martin has told them already. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers back, obviously not actually sorry. "I heard you crying downstairs. Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm alright. Don't worry about it." He starts to guide Jon back into the bedroom so he can sit down. He follows along but keeps talking.

"No, if you get to worry about me all day then I get to worry back."

"Fair enough. But really, I'll be fine. We can talk about it later." He doesn't want to tell Jon that he's part of the reason. He doesn't blame Jon, not at all, that'd be stupid, but he just _knows_ Jon would take it that way and internalise it. "How are you feeling? You've been asleep for a bit and you definitely sound more chipper." Jon gives a displeased face at the change in subject goes along with it.

"A bit better, I think."

Downstairs, Tim and Sasha are giving each other looks back and forth, silently discussing whether to follow him or not. When Sasha gets up, that's the end of the debate and Tim follows. They creep up the stairs and watch through a crack in the door. It's open just enough to see Martin sitting on a stool by the bedside, holding a bony hand. They can just barely see the significantly paler face of Jon, his hair a mess and eye bags darker than ever. They'd never seen him in such a sorry state.

"Do you want some water?"

"Yes, thank you." Martin helps him sit up straighter, propping him on some pillows and he helps guide the glass to his lips, holding his shaky hands steady.

"How are your eyes?"

"I can't see the door." Jon turns his head in the general direction of it. He's a little bit off. Too far to the left. "I can see you, mostly. See your hands. But it's hard to see the end of the bed."

"Right." He runs his thumb up and down Martin's hand. "On- on a happier note, Tim and Sasha are here. Do you want to see them?"

"... Who?"

"T-... Tim and Sasha. Your friends."

"I don't know a Tim or Sasha, are- are you sure?"

Martin helps him have another sip of water. "Do you... do you want to meet them, then?"

"Do they know me?"

"Yes. Yes, you worked together. Should I bring them in? They'd be happy to see you."

"Um... sure. Sure."

Martin gets up and goes into the hall, step stuttering when he sees Tim and Sasha already listening in from the the top step. Their eyes are wide with grief, holding each other's hands so tight they tremble.

"It- it's really that bad, huh?" Tim says, teary-eyed.

"I... I didn't think they might not remember you," Martin admits. "Um... you can come in, if you want?"

"Yeah. Let's go," Sasha says. They step into the bedroom behind Martin and Jon's head flicks up at the noise. He's not looking at them. His eyes are unfocused, a thousand yard stare. They're flitting about but settling on nothing in particular, searching for something.

"Hey, Jon," Tim tries. "It's us, Tim and Sasha. D'you remember?"

"I'm-" They kneel on the floor by the stool so he can see them. He scans their faces, their hair, their hands. "I'm sorry, I- I can't say I remember much of anything anymore." 

He sounds genuinely sorry. It's not his fault. He has to know that right? He doesn't have a choice in what he remembers or forgets. Martin looks away from the scene, already choked up again.

"That's okay," Sasha quickly adds. "We know you, and we're happy to see you." Her tone makes it sound like she's talking to a child and Martin grimaces. He knew he and Jon would have to prepare for that kind of thing, but that can be a talk for another time.

"It's good to meet- erm, see you too." 

There's a long, thick silence. Tim takes Jon's hand and he doesn't pull away. His face softens a little.

"So," Tim starts. Martin doesn't even need to see his face to know where he's going with this and he suppresses a laugh. "You and Martin, huh? How's that going?" Jon breaks into a smile. A weak one, but it's the most he's smiled in the last two weeks.

"He's amazing, really." Sasha clutches her heart at the pure adoration in his voice. If Martin does the same, then that's his business. "He's helping me out a lot, I'm so thankful he's- you know, putting up with all this. I just wish I could help him back."

"It's okay, man, you're not exactly in a state to help. He understands," Tim says.

"It's not like you asked to get- sick." Sasha takes his hand as well."

"I know." They settle into idle chatter, back in the stages of getting to know each other. They tell him stories about the quieter moments in the archives, the times they would banter back and forth as researchers, how he somehow didn't notice a certain assistant's crush on him for years. Jon falls right back into the patterns of teasing and joking back and forth, a look of what is almost familiarity on his face. Martin watches from the door, a small, tired smile on his lips. He knows Jon can't see him. Only Sasha and Tim, their grinning faces, their lively eyes. Eventually, they notice Jon is tired, as he is most of the time now, and they leave him to get back to sleep. 

They hug Martin goodbye after finishing their slightly cold tea, and are at the door with their coats when Sasha asks, "Do you want us to tell the others about Jon? You just- you don't seem to like talking about it."

"That would actually help, to be honest." He tries to smile but it doesn't reach his eyes. They drive off in Tim's car - he knows it's Tim's because the back is covered in cheesy stickers of skeletons and pineapples and dogs - and Martin's alone again. He closes the door and sighs. It was nice to have company for a little while at least. 

He knows that's not fair. Jon is ill, he's tired, he needs to keep his energy, Martin _knows._ But he can't help but feel a bit lonely. Sitting downstairs in a silent cabin in the middle of nowhere, only leaving the house to go on walks or for some shopping in the village. The people in the market have gotten used to him coming to pick up tea or medicine or food. They occasionally say they hope they get to meet Jon some day. He doesn't have the heart to tell them it may never come. He thinks they know that well enough. 

He tries his best not to blame Jon for his loneliness. It's not fair. He tries especially hard not to think about how lonely it might be after... nothing. After nothing. Because Jon won't die. Martin just- won't let him. Not from _this._

Not from this.

* * *

When Jon wakes up, Martin hears it from downstairs.

First, the creaking of the bed as he rolls over. Next, a tired and muffles 'Martin?' followed by a significantly more panicked one. Last, a loud _thump._

Martin dashes up the stairs to find Jon sitting on the floor, back pressed against the bedside table. His chest heaves with each heavy breath. 

"Martin?" he calls. "Martin, I- I can't see. I can't see anything, it- it- it's all _black_ , it's _gone_ , I can't-"

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, it's okay, I'm right here, love," Martin assures, taking Jon's hands. "I'm right here. I've got you."

"It's all dark, I can't see anything, it's just _nothing_."

"I know. It's okay," Martin whispers as Jon drops forward into his arms, looking for something to ground himself. It's not okay. Not really. Nothing at the moment is okay. "I've got you. You're safe."

Jon is still boiling with a fever, still trembling every time he tries to move, still clenching his jaw in preparation for what comes next. Martin can only be happy that this is the loudest he's been able to speak in days (happy isn't the right word. Pleased? Not that either. At least he's able to reach a regular speaking volume). He rubs his back, up and down between his shoulder blades. He can feel Jon's heart racing.

"I'm _scared_ ," he whispers, holding onto Martin's shirt for dear life. Like he might fall away into the darkness if he lets go and not be able to swim back out. "I didn't get to look at you one last time. I didn't _see you_."

Martin doesn't know what to do. He can't help with this. He can talk Jon down from nightmares he never remembers; he can make Jon cups of tea when he feels nauseous; he can run Jon a cool bath to calm the raging temperature. But he can't magically make Jon see. He can't just turn on a light and take it all away from him. He can only sit here and hold Jon while he cries. Comfort him. 

"How about we stay in bed for a while longer?" Martin mumbles. Jon nods against his chest and he slowly raises him back into the bed and under the duvet cover, holding his hands every step of the way. He leaves and returns with a fresh glass of water and a damp towel. He kisses Jon's forehead and replaces the touch with the towel before climbing in next to him.

"I'm sorry," Jon whispers.

"What for?"

"All of this. It must be so much for you, and I'm sorry."

"No. None of that. This is not your fault in the slightest, and I refuse to let you think like that. I'm here to help and care for you as long as you need."

"I just can't help but feel like a bit of a chore nowadays. It must be rotten work."

"Not if it's you, Jon." Martin kisses the crown of his head. "Not if it's you."

* * *

Jon is staring. If he still can. His eyes haven't moved an inch in the past ten minutes, barely even blinking as they face the wall. His eyes changed colour ages ago, sometime during his coma. When he'd opened his eyes, they'd gone from a dark brown to an emerald green with the dots of gold. Now, fully blind, his pupils have gone pure white. Freaky Eye Business is what Tim calls it. Accurate enough. Martin knows Jon is stuck in his own head, but every time he nudges him in attempt to bring him back down, he zones back out just as fast.

"Hey," he tries. "You okay up there?" Jon blinks. "Jon?"

"Yes." He lowers his head, hair falling over his face. "Yes, I'm alright. Can we sleep?"

"Yeah, of course." He's not tired. Not _sleep_ tired. There's a tired there, set in his bones that creak and ache with every move, replacing his marrow and fuelling his worry.

They lay down, facing one another. Jon buries his face in Martin's chest, tucked under his chin. Curled up in a ball as far as he can manage, he holds onto Martin's shirt. Martin looks down at the mess of hair and sweaty clothes and promptly looks back up. He can't bear to look at Jon too long or he might burst into tears at his shiver-wracked form. It's like looking into the sun; he can manage a few seconds but _god_ does it hurt.

"I love you, Martin," Jon whispers, voice wavering at the ends. He says it with a quiet finality. Like a goodbye. Martin' sure it is a goodbye. He can't find it in himself to say it's unnecessary.

"I love you, too."

"Sleep well."

"You too, Jon. Sleep well. Please."


End file.
